


The Other Ways

by Primal_Nexus



Series: 'Twas Lunchies in the Replimat [4]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: 'twas lunchies in the replimat, Episode: s04e01-02 Way of the Warrior, Filling In the Gaps, M/M, POV Elim Garak, POV Julian Bashir, Second Kiss (finally)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28033740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Primal_Nexus/pseuds/Primal_Nexus
Summary: The Klingons’ invasion of Cardassian territory has begun, and the crew and inhabitants of DS9 are swept up in several diplomatic crises. War seems imminent. After a subpar performance during a recent drill, Julian Bashir struggles to find the courage to acknowledge and pursue what he really wants and who he wants to be.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Series: 'Twas Lunchies in the Replimat [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019175
Comments: 11
Kudos: 43





	The Other Ways

“May I join you, Doctor?”

Julian froze, and nothing but his eyes moved to give Garak desultory appraisal. Garak stood next to the open seat at the table with a patient, bland smile on his face and a plate in his hands.

“Did I forget that we had a lunch scheduled?” It came out rather ruder than intended, and only because Julian’s fight-or-flight response had suddenly kicked in far on the _flight_ end of the spectrum. Treatment of Garak’s earlier injuries had afforded a brief opportunity to dissolve some of the awkwardness that remained between them, but Julian wasn’t sure if he was ready for a _prolonged_ interaction. And in fact, the last thing he wanted was a public confrontation over the ill-advised impulse that had driven him to grab a shocked Cardassian tailor-cum-exile-cum-spy by the shoulders and ram their lips together after Garak’s miraculous return from the doomed Obsidian Order and Tal Shiar offensive on the Founders’ homeworld. 

But Garak didn’t seem like he was spoiling for a confrontation at the moment. He merely stood there, blinking expectantly, the practiced near-smirk completely unwavering. Julian sighed, placed the padd face down on the table, and gestured to the empty chair in surrender and invitation.

“I don’t suppose you’re catching up on the serialist poets of the First Republic.” Garak indicated the padd with a tilt of his head as he took his seat. He produced a napkin seemingly from thin air, carefully folding it into the jagged collar of an ornate red tunic.

“It’s a performance review.” Julian bore imaginary holes into the padd and immediately regretted that he had failed to notice Garak’s approach and had lost the opportunity to make a quick subsequent escape from the Replimat. And Garak. “We were supposed to have meetings in the wardroom this morning, but going over the finer points of disappointment with the latest drill isn’t as important now as it was yesterday.”

“Oh yes, far be it for the wellbeing of the entire Cardassian empire to interrupt your training exercises,” Garak responded lightly. But the smile was finally gone, replaced with an exhausted sort of despondence. It was a brief brushing aside of the veil, a blink-and-miss-it glimpse. Garak cleared his throat and seemed to forcibly widen his eyes, focusing his attention on the apparently engulfing task of taking a set of chopsticks in hand. Julian looked at the plate.

“Maki?”

“Hm, recommended highly to me. I don’t typically indulge in human fare, but I find myself in dire need of exciting diversion.” Garak gestured broadly, encompassing the plate, Julian, and the entire Replimat with the motion of his arms. He then picked up a roll with admirable grace for one wholly inexperienced (or at least, giving that impression) in the use of chopsticks. The sight of Garak’s suddenly stiffening neck and disgruntled cheek-flaring at the first bite almost made Julian laugh. Almost. Julian felt his face relax into a grin despite himself, and the tight heat of familiar affection in his cheeks quickly followed.

“Not to your taste?” Did Garak even _know_ how charming...? 

Garak, to his credit, dutifully chewed and swallowed the morsel with only the barest hint of a grimace.

“The flavor profile is just so…” He circled his wrist, twirling the sticks contemplatively. His expression suddenly darkened. “So _bright_. Does that make sense? So unsubtle. But of course the replicated simile of marine life on Earth _would_ be so unbearably _vibrant_. I don’t know what I was thinking to even try it!” Garak dropped the chopsticks onto his still-full plate with a theatrical sigh of disgust, crossed his arms, closed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair, displaying a purposeful lack of acknowledgement to the furtive glances his raised voice had earned him from other diners. 

This was something a bit (although _only_ a bit) beyond play-acting. There was a real edge to his mood, even if it was currently being misdirected at fish and rice and seaweed. Julian hadn’t seen Garak so close to complete discomposure since the malfunction and removal of his previously abused implant. And was it really any wonder? Julian felt a swell of concern lined with a strange sort of hopeless longing. He knew there was nothing he could do or say to assuage Garak’s distress, and it made him feel so useless. There were few things Julian Bashir despised more than feeling useless. 

“I suppose the fleets will have engaged by now,” he tried. There was no sense in avoiding the obvious source of Garak’s anxiety.

“Yes,” Garak bit out, not opening his eyes. “A mere 52 hours of low warp travel and the disorganized scramble of our headless military are now all that stand between the Klingons and Prime itself. And we might not have even had _that_ , had it not been for the backroom diplomacy I’m sure you had some part in encouraging.”

Julian leaned in and placed a careful, reassuring hand on Garak’s arm. Garak’s eyes opened slightly, but his gaze was lowered to where Julian touched him. He remained otherwise still.

“I’m glad the Captain found a way to warn you, and I hope you were able to pass on the message and buy the Cardassians some time,” Julian said in a near-whisper, bringing himself as close as he dared to limit the risk of being overheard. “It’s a messy situation. With the threat of the Dominion, the last thing the Federation needs is open war with the Klingon Empire.”

“Why, Doctor!” Garak bellowed suddenly, raising his gaze and elevating the ridges above his eyes in feigned mischievous amusement. There was uncharitable wickedness turning up the corners of his mouth. He continued in a piercing speaker’s formant: “Are you sure you’re quite happy to be having this discussion in the Replimat, of all places?” He nodded conspicuously to where Julian’s hand remained clamped to his arm. Julian jolted back as if physically shocked, and the electric tingle in the offending fingers as they spasmed to release Garak’s arm supported that conclusion, idiotic and impossible as it was. _Bastard!_

“L-look, I have to be going, _Garak_ , bu-but you, uh, let me know if you need anything for the pain,” Julian managed to choke out. “Your transverse ribs will take some time to heal completely.”

“I don’t need your pity!” Garak snarled, and this time it was he who leaned forward, with the smallest wince, dropping all pretense with a sharp but carefully modulated tone. “Neither does Cardassia. What we could have used was some real warning or _help_ , but the Order is gone, and given the Federation’s diplomatic posturing, help doesn’t seem to be forthcoming. My dear Doctor…” The typical honorary endearment sounded more like an insult than it ever had, venomous and sarcastic. “...at least spare me the insult of feeling _sorry_ for me.”

“Sisko to Bashir.”

Julian stared glumly at Garak, caught between the misery of indignation and shame on one hand and the competing relief of having been offered an immediate out from this interaction on the other, the conversation having devolved into an unpleasant confrontation after all. He tapped his comm.

“Bashir here.”

“Arm yourself and report to the Defiant immediately, Doctor.”

“On my way.” Julian retrieved his padd and stood to leave. “Excuse me.”

“Doctor…” Was that a note of regret? Impossible. Julian hesitated briefly, and it was just long enough for Garak to catch his gaze again. He was smiling, but the meanness had mostly gone out of it. In truth, Garak looked almost as forlorn as Julian _felt_. “Do be careful. And do what you can, out _there_ , for my people. They’re not a lost cause, not yet.”

* * *

“On screen,” Sisko commanded, and the wreckage filled their view, jagged debris floating apart in the diminishing echoed motion of explosive destruction in the vacuum.

“Are there any signs of survivors?” Julian asked. He squinted, trying to make out any remaining containment among the shorn chunks of metal that were now barely recognizable as having been, not so long ago, the hulls and compartments of Cardassian vessels.

“I suppose it’s possible,” Jadzia replied uneasily. “But there’s no way to know without de-cloaking and using our primary sensor array.”

_Of course_ , Julian chastised himself internally. He couldn’t assess the likelihood of there being any survivors even with the magnification of the viewscreen. Well, he could, that is, take in this visual data, do some quick math, and spit out a probability. But that would draw suspicion. This had to be worth a quick scan, despite the risk.

“Sir,” Worf broke in, directing himself to Captain Sisko. “I strongly recommend against that. It is likely there are cloaked Klingon warships in the vicinity lying in wait.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound very _honorable_ to me.” Julian pitched his response carefully, despite feeling compelled to urge his point. Worf seemed calm and reasonable for a Klingon, but that could only finally mean so much. The honorable thing for _them_ to do would be, had to be, to decloak, just for a minute, and scan for survivors. Surely the Captain would agree if he made his case calmly.

“In war, there is nothing more honorable than victory,” came the practiced response. Worf recited it patiently, almost as if imparting an obvious lesson to a naive child. Julian watched Sisko steeple his hands in consideration, but it was only momentary. _You’re good_ , Julian reflected ruefully. Years of service had clearly honed Worf’s ability to make his opinion heard and felt on a bridge.

“Commander,” Sisko ordered Dax, “Keep us at one-quarter impulse until we’ve cleared the wreckage. Then take us to warp.”

“But, sir…” It was a losing battle, but Julian was reliving the sadness in Garak’s eyes at their parting, understanding how _stuck_ he must have felt, with nothing to do but sit back and wait for the outcome of this invasion. “If there _are_ survivors…” Julian needed to _do_ something!

“I’m sorry, Doctor. We can’t risk it. We _have_ to reach Dukat.” Sisko was sympathetic, but not so much as to be at all yielding in his decisiveness. Such was the burden of command, even if it meant that people like Dukat received repeated red-carpet roll-outs courtesy of Starfleet… whereas there could be others, and there likely _were_ , not so lucky and privileged, slowly freezing and suffocating in a compromised compartment somewhere in this field of wreckage through which the Defiant now snuck with its damn effective cloaking device. 

Julian tried not to let it show on his face that a fraction of his respect for the good judgment of his Captain had slipped away in the moment he had received the reply. He nodded and turned back to his station, away from the still-magnified debris field on the viewscreen.  
  


* * *

Garak stepped into Quark’s and surveyed his surroundings. A speedy and successful mission would land the returning crew here, certainly, for a few shared rounds and some mutual back-clapping. It would be best to make any apologetic overture to the Doctor briefly, publicly, and vaguely, to spare him what had become clear to Garak was a growing discomfort seemingly informed by his very proximity. _Although,_ **_he_ ** _was the one who kissed_ **_me_** , a secret voice of quiet forbidden giddiness that Garak didn’t quite recognize as his own offered from the recesses of his mind. 

But Garak saw no sign of the senior crew. 

A significant amount of time had elapsed, enough to trigger the release of the first few cold, spiny pangs of guilt-laden worry that he knew would strike still deeper into him if he didn’t find some distraction, and soon. He strode purposefully to the bar and made his request of the establishment’s eponymous Ferengi, a request that was fulfilled, to Garak’s considerable astonishment, _on the house_. 

But there was hardly any distraction to be found here. Quark, not unlike the dear Doctor, was so eager to divulge his own cares, and Garak found that it needled remarkably. How could everyone just walk around pretending that the entire Universe wasn’t threatening to split apart on a moment’s notice? 

Only the previous morning, Garak’s most immediate concern had been finishing the alterations of some Vitarian wool undergarments to address Morn’s ample figure. And also, perhaps, yes, _definitely_ , _privately_ , beneath the day-to-day ordinary stresses of craft and retail, he had been given of late to dreaming up a plan to follow up on that illicitly short-lived embrace that had so surprised him. It had been an astonishing thrill to be taken unawares, and so pleasantly. He had been strongly considering a break-in to one of the dear Doctor’s holoprograms—just a little harmless fun, privacy, the thrill of trespassing into the fantasies of that most deliciously guileless of men. 

The long stretches of boredom in exile had a way of working on one, softening one, dulling one’s reflexes. And now Garak’s home was under attack, and there was nothing he could do, and he was going to horrible, albeit regretfully predictable, pieces.

At least Quark was either wholly oblivious to or completely unaffected by stinging repartee, unlike the more sensitive Bashir. Who was _fine_. Who was out doing good and saving lives and being fearless in the face of danger, and probably looking good while doing it. Who certainly wasn’t currently being _exploded_ by a Klingon warship. Along with everything and everyone else that mattered to Elim Garak.

“—And the _worst_ part of it is, my only hope for salvation is the _Federation_.” Quark grimaced so hard on the last word that he seemed on the edge of a gag. Garak lifted his glass in a grim salute.

“I know _precisely_ how you feel.”

* * *

“I assure you, Doctor, I am _not_ a Changeling.” Dukat stood close, crowding Julian as he sterilized and reset for yet another blood screening. Julian resisted the urge to flinch away. He reminded himself to control his nerves. He was the one _administering_ the blood test, after all.

“Then you have _nothing_ to worry about,” Julian offered, affecting his strongest professional bedside veneer. Dukat remained predictably unsoothed.

“I find this whole procedure offensive.”

Something snapped, and Julian felt it go. They’d very likely left people to die horribly from icy ebullism, and for _what_? So Dukat and the vaunted Detapa Council members could harass him for having been part of the effort to _save_ them? At what cost? This couldn’t have been what Garak had meant when he had begged him to do what he could for the benefit of the Cardassian people in this time of crisis.

“And I find _you_ offensive.” Julian couldn’t help himself, and anyway, he found it extremely unlikely that Captain Sisko would reprimand a little deserved rudeness to Dukat—it was, after all, something of a renowned diplomatic sport for the Captain. “Now hold up your arm, or I’ll have a Security Officer do it _for_ you.”

* * *

The only thing that could be heard over the klaxon’s blare was Quark’s indignant shrieking.

“ _Now_ what?!”

“Well,” Garak stepped close. “I can’t be sure, of course, but my guess would be Klingons.” He didn’t wait for Quark’s anticipated lament in response. He _had_ to find Odo.

Garak nearly collided with Odo at the entry to the Constable’s office.

“What is it, Garak? We’re on alert, and I’m busy.”

“Has the Defiant docked?”  
  


“ _Garak_.” The gruff impatience of Odo’s tone intensified. Garak turned and gestured for Odo to move as he wished, signalling a willingness to walk (very quickly) and talk.

“I’m sure you already know how indiscriminate the Klingons can be. I was hoping to impress upon you the prudence of assigning a detail to the Infirmary.”

“I was just on my way there. As I understand, Doctor Bashir is back on board and is already briefing his staff.” Odo stopped suddenly and held up his strange, smooth approximation of a hand. After a characteristic grunt of misgiving, he pushed a phaser into Garak’s arms and relayed the exact location of the Detapa Council members’ assigned shelter, guarded by none other than Gul Dukat. “I suggest you move quickly,” he finished.

“Good luck, Odo.” Garak turned and headed back down the Promenade in the direction from which they’d come.

“Don’t do anything stupid!” Odo called after him. Well, yes, Garak had immediately begun calculating how he could explain away, oh, the _absolutely_ accidental phaser burns on the fantasized corpse of Gul Dukat. But Odo was observant and had been kind to arm him, not just with the weapon, but also with the necessary information required to protect the last semblance of legitimate Cardassian government. It would be a personal betrayal of trust that Garak was suddenly and queasily ill-at-ease to consider, to carry out what otherwise would be a worthy and much-desired assassination in the chaos of the battle he was sure was soon to erupt. “And _Garak_...” Garak paused, briefly, pushing a short, panicked breath through his nose. He didn’t turn. “Don’t worry about Doctor Bashir. He’s trained, and he’s ready.”

Garak nodded to himself, not exactly comforted, but satisfied for the moment. He broke into a run.

* * *

* * *

“Personal Log, Stardate 49011.4. There’s something to be said for the proving ground of battle, and I think, honestly, the Klingons may have that right.” Julian turned on his heel and gave Kukalaka a thoughtful little squeeze before returning him to his place on the shelf. “I was so embarrassed by my poor performance during the drill. But really, of course _I_ knew, and _everyone_ knew, that it was Odo we were after. It wasn’t real. And in reality, Odo’s my friend, and I wouldn’t want to _neutralize_ him. I needed the _true_ context of battle to prove anything to anyone, not least of all, to myself.”

The Klingons had been quite handily rebuffed, and Julian had enjoyed no small part in that effort. Of course, it couldn’t be said that he had saved Odo’s life. Odo could reform himself against the slicing pressure of any bat’leth, but at least he had been spared the effort. And it had been a dizzyingly exhilarating experience for Julian, entering into the fray, putting his combat training to real use. Although he certainly hadn’t killed anyone on the maximum stun setting, he knew he would need to eventually parse his enthusiasm, his apparent _near_ _glee_ , under combat conditions—after all, Julian Bashir was a doctor first and foremost. The knife’s edge that split his drive to help others and the pressure of cold rage that had been building since he had boarded the Defiant, or no, possibly even _before_ that, would have to be mulled over at some point, too. But not now, not today.

“I suppose I’m very lucky that the Federation rewards service beyond a body count.” This, Julian had decided, the Klingons very much did _not_ have right. “My staff has their hands full treating the wounded, but I fully expect that within—”

There was an interrupting chime. Julian threw his hands up briefly in good-natured not-quite-annoyance and flopped back onto the sofa in his living area. “Computer, pause that log.” He smiled at the door, wondering. Was it Jadzia? Miles? Surely some much-needed rest and relaxation would be afoot this evening. “Come in!” he called.

The door opened to reveal a completely unexpected visitor: one Elim Garak, conservatively but quite classily attired in muted greens and blacks, complete with a geometrically interesting cut of the collar. He looked no worse for wear, considering that Julian had already heard rumors of Garak’s daring repulsion of the elite Klingon unit sent to dispatch the members of the Detapa Council. But then, Garak, unlike Julian, had considerable experience no doubt when it came to physically repulsing an enemy. If that was what he had come to Julian’s quarters to do, then he certainly hadn’t dressed for the occasion.

“I’m very pleased to find you in good health, Doctor.” Garak took a few cautious steps forward.

His expression was an unreadable mask of harmless pleasantness as he took in the surroundings. His glance landed on Kukalaka but barely lingered. He raised his eye ridges, looking to Julian again with undisguised approval. “Neater than I thought they would be, your quarters.”

“What can I say? I enjoy experiential diversity over the accumulation of objects.”

Garak laughed lightly.

“A man after my own heart!”

Julian shook his head and smiled broadly, barely believing his good luck, the opening that had been left for him. He stood up and approached Garak, unable to suppress a playful smirk.

“Am I?” Julian wouldn’t be brash this time. “A man after your own heart?” He decided he would invite, but not invade. He was still riding the high of victory, still flush with this somewhat foreign _glory of battle_ about which much fuss had previously been made to him, and into which he’d finally been inducted. Yes, there were things to lose, and the stakes were high, but in this moment, the result seemed assured. And it _was_ glorious.

“I think you are,” Garak relented. And just like that, he closed the small distance between them. They were practically nose to nose. “But I’m not sure it should be worth anything to you, that I think so.”

“Why not?” Julian could smell something, quite faint, not quite sweet, but not unpleasant. Definitely some kind of artificial fragrance Garak had gingerly applied with the intention of enticing him. It was working.

“Well, I’m not a hero. Even now, I have trousers to hem.”

“And yet, here you are.” Julian cocked his chin, peering down his nose at Garak through the screen of his dark lashes.

“Here I am,” Garak echoed. They were as close as they’d ever been since the kiss that Julian had initiated. But he would not make any advances now, as tempting as it was to do so. There was a beat, and then another, and then the moment stretched into awkwardness, and Julian blinked.

“Garak, if you—” It was a merciful surrender, the split-hair _moment_ before Julian had decided he would retreat, step back, divert their conversation to the serialist poets of the First Republic. The surrender took its form in two trembling hands on his elbows, drawing him in, and Garak took a short, barely audible intake of breath, almost a soft gasp, before he pressed forward and moved his mouth onto Julian’s, firmly. Julian relaxed and his lips parted, inviting a tentative but curious tongue.

The scent really was lovely, especially this close, and Garak’s mouth was fresh. Perhaps Garak hadn’t planned for this to happen, but clearly he had allowed for the possibility in his planning all the same. It was a thrilling thought. 

“Doctor,” Garak murmured when they finally parted.

“ _Julian_ ,” Julian corrected, a bit breathlessly, almost against Garak’s mouth. He smiled, and he knew it was one of his more stupefied expressions, mouth slightly agape, eyes slightly wide, eager and dopey.

“Julian,” Garak allowed, slowly releasing Julian’s elbows with a parting, affectionate squeeze. “I’ll take my leave.” He took a single, slow step back, and his blue eyes seemed for once aflame, not in the least bit icy or removed. “I only came here to tell you that I’m… very proud of you.”

“That goes without saying!” Julian laughed. “I’m proud of you, too.” They exchanged a few only _slightly_ cumbrous nods as Garak backed toward the door.

“Goodnight.” Garak’s voice was soft, amused, and possibly a little embarrassed. 

As he watched Garak go, chuckling after the door shushed closed, Julian knew that it _would_ be a good night. His dreams would almost certainly be directed toward the potential of _this_ , this unanticipated and delightful returning of his affection, this exciting _possibility_ , and not the fraught reimaginings of the battle recently hard won, the decisions he’d already been forced to accept. 

Garak was a _complication_ , of course, but it was easier now to put that away for later consideration, too. They had fought on the same side. They had triumphed. With all important interests being aligned, even Captain Sisko would have to admit how much of an asset he had in Elim Garak. And that would hopefully make the way forward easier for Julian Bashir. It was good to hope!

All wasn’t well in the quadrant, but things had certainly turned out a sight better than expected.

“Goodnight, Garak,” Julian whispered to himself. He cleared his throat and threw Kukalaka an energetic wink. “Computer, resume personal log.”

********

**Author's Note:**

> Heeeeey we made it to the second kiss and it only took... uh... 4K words or thereabouts since the first one.
> 
> Thanks to [plain_and_simple_tailor (ectogeo)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectogeo/pseuds/plain_and_simple_tailor) for polishing this, aha, effort.
> 
> Y'all, I find your feedback and kudos EXTREMELY TASTE, mlem.
> 
> Also, [hmu on Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/delicatetrashstranger) if you want. I'm old and weird and literally can offer nothing but slightly drunk Star Trek hot takes, but I don't bite.


End file.
